Crestfallen

This End of Daylight Savings Time business is for crap.

And I'm not talking about the usual harangues about how children have no perception of time changes and are therefore up and READY TO PLAY! at ohmygod o'clock. This is my fifth Fall Back as a father, and an "extra hour of sleep" is a laughably distant memory--along with that other rare creature, the 60-degree day.

It's just not fair. City parents live and die by the vagaries of weather, and the best days for outdoor frolic are during that thing called "autumn," when things are "autumnal." The sun is cool enough to avoid sunscreen, yet warm enough not to have to dig through mountains of closetritus to find the winter coats. And have you ever tried to throw a mustard pitch with a poofy parka on? It's comical.

For weeks I've been planning to take the boys out to Nana's and not quit playing in her leaves until they've been pulverized into a fine powder and we're all picking little stems out of our underpants. But the temperatures that had been so stuffy have suddenly dropped into the 40s, and the leaves are still just sitting up there, too stunned to know what to do.

I've been walking home in the dark, windy gloom for days now, wondering Who Killed Autumn. Then today I walked past an Onion kiosk and saw this headline.

Comments

Crestfallen

This End of Daylight Savings Time business is for crap.

And I'm not talking about the usual harangues about how children have no perception of time changes and are therefore up and READY TO PLAY! at ohmygod o'clock. This is my fifth Fall Back as a father, and an "extra hour of sleep" is a laughably distant memory--along with that other rare creature, the 60-degree day.

It's just not fair. City parents live and die by the vagaries of weather, and the best days for outdoor frolic are during that thing called "autumn," when things are "autumnal." The sun is cool enough to avoid sunscreen, yet warm enough not to have to dig through mountains of closetritus to find the winter coats. And have you ever tried to throw a mustard pitch with a poofy parka on? It's comical.

For weeks I've been planning to take the boys out to Nana's and not quit playing in her leaves until they've been pulverized into a fine powder and we're all picking little stems out of our underpants. But the temperatures that had been so stuffy have suddenly dropped into the 40s, and the leaves are still just sitting up there, too stunned to know what to do.

I've been walking home in the dark, windy gloom for days now, wondering Who Killed Autumn. Then today I walked past an Onion kiosk and saw this headline.